


A rose that never wilts isn't a rose at all.

by MovesLikeBucky



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gardens & Gardening, M/M, but like, make it occult or ethereal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: Rosebushes are picky.  And particular.  They don't bend to the wiles of a demon, nor to the miracles of an angel.But Aziraphale has some experience with rosebushes
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 78





	A rose that never wilts isn't a rose at all.

**Author's Note:**

> This might as well be Gen but I still tagged it M/M because they are very, very married xD
> 
> Based on a conversation in the GO Events server because I have no chill.
> 
> Title is from "Write Like No One Is Reading" by Crystal Woods (I literally know nothing about this I googled quotes about roses >_> )

The sliding door to the back garden does it’s best impersonation of a slam.Demonic energies — filled to the brim with anxiety, anger, and a general kind of malice — spread through the cottage like a miasma.

All in all, the worst way to interrupt a nice cup of tea.

Aziraphale lays his book down on the dining table, where he had been enjoying a nice story and a lovely scone with his afternoon tea, just in time for his husband to round the corner.

“Bloody _rosebushes_ , too prissy!Too particular!”Crowley shouts to no one as he makes his way back to their bathroom, ostensibly to hose the dirt and grime off his body.

Aziraphale blinks a few times and rises from the table.He straightens his waistcoat carefully and slowly rolls up his shirtsleeves.Some plants, you see, need a much different approach.

He makes his way lazily to the garden, inspecting Crowley’s latest venture.His dear husband was determined to best Susan Willimen’s prized pink roses; he always did *hate* to lose.But, Aziraphale reasoned, part of marriage was presenting a united front.Filling in for where your partner lacked; the two of you complimenting each other and creating a life.And if part of that life was petty squabbles, well, that was alright then.

Aziraphale’s time at the Dowling’s had taught him quite a lot about rosebushes.Harriet was always quite cross when they looked anything but pristine, and miracles, he had found the hard way, do not mix well with roses.

As his husband aptly stated, they’re far to prissy and particular.

“Oh, hello there my dears,” he coos as he approaches the rosebushes.Bright red blooms, though not as bright or as big as they could be.A half effort at best.A shame, really.

He tsks at them.

“Now, now, what is this?”Aziraphale carefully searches among the blooms, finding what he feared.Not only are the blooms wilted, but the leaves are forming tiny brown spots.

“Is this a spot?”He asks with sympathy, with care and compulsion.He strokes the leaves reverently and gently.“Is it then?Poor things.”

He inspects them further, finding more than a few on each of the bushes, simply won’t do.

“Right then, lovelies!You know how my husband feels about leaf spots, simply will not stand for them.Nor for sagging blooms.”He watches the blooms perk up slightly at the lilt of his voice, as they should.“I am quite very sure that it is not your fault, poor dears.It is so _dreadfully_ difficult to be a rose, after all, being cared for and cooed over.Being lauded for your beauty.Truly a hardship of a life.”

The roses tilt towards him, like he’s the sun and they are thirsty.Roses, you see, are quite simple creatures.

“I am so sorry my dears, but you know what you’ve done?”Aziraphale waits for an answer that won’t come.He shakes his head, turns on his heel to stalk back to the cottage.He glances back over his shoulder, noting how the rose blooms shake and shiver.

“You’ve disappointed me, my lovelies,” he says with a heavy sigh, making his way back into the cottage, “oh dear, oh dear.”

Their fear is palpable in the air as he walks inside and slides the door closed.Looking back out over the garden, the roses are transformed.Brilliant apple-red blooms, shiny glossy leaves — the plants seem to take on a glow of their own.He nods and walks back over to the table, back to his scone and his tea, kept warm because he expects it to be.

Roses are easy.You just have to know how to push their buttons.


End file.
